


How Will You Show Your Gratitude

by darkandgritty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandgritty/pseuds/darkandgritty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe Harry Potter, where the Ministry has continued what Voldemort has started. Very dark. Holocaust imagery and ideas, what would happen if things had been put into place. Again, one of the darker things I've written. This is NOT a feel good story. Please be over 18 to read. More information in the writers note. Very scattered, and needs editing.  Adding here, in case fanfic.net decides my writing is too dark for their tastes.  Always a fear. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> READER WARNINGS:
> 
> This is very dark, and not in anyway meant too offend anyone. If it's not your cup of tea, please move on. This will be 18+, violent, horrific, and if written correctly psychologically disturbing.
> 
> The Holocaust imagery throughout the Harry Potter series, both in the book and the films, and it seemed completely plausible to me that even with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, dying, that there was enough infrastructure in place to continue with the scourge of Muggle-Borns, Squibs, and all of those who are an enemy to the future of a "pure-blooded magic society."
> 
> The danger does not end with those in the Wizarding world. All Non-Wizarding people are viewed as second class, and territory to conquer for those behind this very dark, alternate universe.
> 
> Neville, will rise from the ashes, no fear. Harry may be dead, but Neville will be our hero. And he will have a lot of help, along the way.
> 
> I intend this story to change view points often, but if i had to wager up front, Hermione will have the majority of chapters for us to follow her point of view, and what she's experiencing.
> 
> There will be major character deaths. There all ready has been, and I haven't written a word yet. ;) So, be prepared. This is rated M and for very good reason. It will be dark, explicit, and disturbing. PLEASE know that going in, so there's no surprises. And do not read this if you are under eighteen. Seriously.
> 
> Also, as a writer, I am very open to feedback. I love to hear what my readers think, and am willing to listen to ideas, and even directions in which they think things should go. I won't always change my vision to follow suit, but I will always engage in a dialogue with anyone who is willing to message me with their thoughts, and ideas.
> 
> Alternate Universe, so there may be some surprises in who is alive, and who is dead, and who will join them. Again, fair warning.
> 
> So, without further adieu, here we go.

Hermione woke with a start, gasping for breath. The nightmares of the Final Battle at Hogwarts followed her everywhere she went. The horror of seeing the corpse of Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and the joy as he opened his eyes, and Voldemort's fury, and shock at being thwarted. The brilliant colors of the streams of their wands meeting, hadn't dulled in her memory, though months had passed. Terrible months of suffering, but she could remember every moment of that duel, as if it were happening before her, repeating like a muggle film. The energy had been contagious, the joy in the air on the side of the light, and the trepidation among the Death Eaters. In any other war, they would have met in hand to hand combat, destroying each other, but as had been done in battles of Yore, the leaders of either side fought, while their armies waited with bated breath.

It was always in the same moment, that Hermione awoke. Something had gone wrong. Too much magic, too much power, and a dark strike of fate. And with a shock of magic that hit through him, freezing his maniacal features, the Dark Lord fell into the oblivion of death. The satisfaction of watching him fall, and the sounds of his followers mourning was not long-lived. It was Ron's voice that alerted her that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"HARRY! NO!!!!!!!" His anguished cry caught Hermione's attention and she turned her attention from the fallen Voldemort, to see Harry had also fallen to the ground. She ran to him, mere steps behind Ron. Her hands moving to shake his shoulders, watching in horror as there was no recognition on his face, his glasses slipping down his nose. His arm flopping, dead as he was to the stones of the Hogwarts courtyard. It was always her own scream that woke her in this nightmare, drowning out all other sounds. And the pain of the memory was not in any way softened, as she realized with horror, as she did every time her eyes opened, and she realized she was not in the safety of her Hogwarts Bedroom, or of the Burrow, or even of the house she had lived in with her parents.

After a week in solitary confinement for bad behavior, chained in a hole, she had been returned to one of dozens of barracks, all identical in their structure. Each building held 60 prisoners, separated by gender and crimes. They were referred to as "Enemies Of The Magical State", by the Ministry. What that meant, according to Provision 12, of the Amendment For Improving Magical Bloodlines, was clearly defined as " Those of inferior birth, that through dark means have stolen magic that was intended for only those of Magic Blood." Muggles. "Those of correct birth, who were born without magical ability. " Squibs. "The worst crime, being, those of correct birth who have gone against their own kind to support the infiltration of inferior bloodlines, and all enemies of the Ministry and their attempts to secure a better future for all." The Order. Her friends. Good people. Decent folk, were now the enemy, according to the Ministry.

The changes had been in place, before the attack on Hogwarts. Everything had been done by paperwork, and with the helpful aid of the Imperius curse, Shacklebolt had signed everything into place. Many wondered at the quick rise Percy Weasley had made in the Ministry of Magic, but there was opportunity, and the death of his brother had left Percy… unsettled. Few were aware of his contributions to the Amendment, and too, the creation of the Enemies Of Magic Interment Center. His involvement would not be thoroughly revealed for many years to come. 

Hermione had been placed among other Muggleborn women, and shared her cot with an older Witch named Daphne, who had attended Beauxbatons as a girl, and preferred to speak in French, and more often then not, spoke only nonsense. As enemies of the state, the punishments they faced were varied, and terrible. Wizards and Witches in good standing were able to obtain permits that allowed them to cherry pick from these enemies, if they had skills that could be put to good use. Daphne had been chosen by a Doctor, who was working on a paper for the Ministry, about the use of the Unforgivable Curses. Every time Daphne returned, a little more of her sanity was gone, and the light in her eyes diminished.

Despite her abuses, Daphne could sleep through anything, and Hermione's nightmares never troubled her. It was early, Hermione noted, glancing to the small windows that were found through each corner of the structure. Barely large enough to squeeze an arrow through, but the light that came through was enough for her to determine the time. And it was a good half an hour before they would be called into the courtyard for role call. She made her way down the ladder that connected the four bunk high beds. Careful not to make much noise, there were House-Elves that had been assigned, two per barracks, their one duty was to spy on those they were assigned too, and share all pertinent information with their Masters. She made her way to the small bathroom that the 60 girls shared. Two toilets, no doors, privacy was something that had been denied them since they had arrived. There was a hose, with cold water for the shower, and she ignored it, moving to the toilet instead to relieve herself. 

It was the first Monday back, from when Hermione had been sent to solitary. She knew what that meant. Her name had been once again entered into the list of those prisoners, that were able to be taken by pass, for scientific, industrial or educational purposes. The pass system was what had sent her to solitary in the first place. Peter Pettigrew had taken an interest in the bushy haired brunette. She had been under a limited pass system, due to her celebrity. Everyone had an interest in learning what they could from one of the Golden Trio, and often, those who had checked her out, like a library book, had far more interest in her body then her brain. He had underestimated her, and while he attempted to reveal what lay beneath her Internment issue grey and black striped uniform, that could be described best as a hospital gown, with snaps, instead of ties. With one tear he had revealed her back, and with his distraction, she had grabbed his wand.

Needless to say, Peter Pettigrew was still recovering from the attack, at St. Mungo's. He had been howling for her death, ever since, certain that his nether regions would never recover from her vicious attack. The Director of the Internment camp, had come to visit her, after a combination of Aurors and dementors, all working for the new, dark Ministry, had disarmed her. Chained in the bottom of the hole, deeper then many of the vaults at Gringrotts, she had squinted up to the man standing over her, holding a lantern, to display her. He smirked a little, when the light of recognition crossed her eyes, and she attempted to dissolve into the darkness of the hole. She'd never forget his face. Lucius Malfoy. The torture in his manor was one memory that was as clear as losing Harry had been. He had smiled that same way then. His silken voice echoed off the space above her.

"Miss Granger. How many times will I see you in chains, I wonder? You were scheduled to be executed tomorrow morning, at sunrise. "

She didn't respond, just tried to draw her knees closer to her body, the way the chains held her guaranteed it was no easy task. She didn't want him looking at her nude. The clothing was taken away while in solitary, and she didn't enjoy the look in his eyes, as he watched her. His smirk widened as he watched her attempt to conceal herself.

" I have put a stay on your execution. I hold your fate in my hands. You're lucky I can't stand Pettigrew. i visited him in the hospital ward, and I must say… My Master would have been very pleased with your creativity. I think you have a dark heart, Miss Granger. I look forward to watching you discover it, and to see in what way you will show your gratitude… for your continued existence. " 

He sneered and left her shaken in the hole, wondering if she had made a mistake by not using the wand as a way out, to end herself, and this nightmare. The disapproving faces of Ron and Harry haunted her dreams that night, and she did her best not to think of such alternate routes. She had survived this long, surely there was a purpose for it?

She sighed, wishing they had been given toilet paper, or a wand at least to clean herself. All she had to wash herself was the hose, and she removed her uniformed striped clothing, setting them on the counter, and turned on the cold hose of the water. How she wished for soap. For hot water. Her shampoo and conditioner, that smelled like coconut, and the ocean. 

She shivered as she rebuttoned her Uniform, there were no towels, and she hoped that the clean water at least would do what it could to wash some of the filth from the striped monstrosity she had grown to hate. She stood, her hair dripping dry, as she watched the door. The sound of a drum beginning to echo from outside. Her silent prayers for safety, and freedom crossed her lips, as the sound of the other women, and girls of her Barracks began to rise around her, they hurried, and got into their assigned lines, and she followed suit, squeezing her eyes hut as the door opened and the light they had been denied filled the room.

It seemed unfair that the Earth could have such a beautiful day, when her inhabitants were suffering so terribly.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus Snape sighed in irritation as a house elf brought in a second bundle of prisoner requests. Sighing heavily, and muttering to himself. 

"There has to be a better way to go about this."

The requests were coming in earnest now, and the newly assigned Director of Communications sat at his desk at the largest of the internment camps that held the mudblood population, the unfortunate squibs, and the blood traitors was frankly, overwhelmed.

His one strike of luck, other then the antivenin that Minerva McGonagall had conjured after his near death experience in the shrieking shack. Nagini's venom had slowed his heart down to barely a beat a minute, but she had delivered the medicine quickly, and with the death of Lily's son, the riots that followed, and the eventual imprisonment of thousands of Witches and Wizards, not only in Great Britian but around the world.

There had been a change in his paperwork and blood status officially, after he had joined with Dumbledore, and the Order of the Phoenix. His Father's muggle status had been changed to that of squib in the records, and through a loophole that allowed the children of squibs who had magic ability to escape not only imprisonment, but allowed him to be considered for a job through the Ministry. There were many new positions available due to the changes, and the inevitable blank that was there for everyone of question who had once known of his lineage. Those who remained alive wouldn't say anything, on the off chance that there was still some good in him.

For his part, Snape had attempted to accomplish what he could to keep friends, colleagues and acquaintances safe, but he could only do so much to prevent damage without raising suspicion. He had signed the formal request for Dennis Creevey, from Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf had eviscerated the boy on every level, and the fee that Fenrir had to pay seemed like a poor trade for the Creevey boys life. 

The requests continued to come in, and usually he had to accept the first one he came upon. He knew that the system certainly had it's flaws, and anyone who damaged one of the prisoners and their ability to participate in the delicate economy of the post-war world would pay for that honor. The rates were higher for deaths. But not nearly high enough. He wasn't certain what number could reach that heights. He shook the thought off, his pale slender fingertips pushing an errant strand of ebon, the grease of it adding a certain… sheen. He let himself consider the images he had been sent from the Creevey crime scene for a moment, before glancing up to another housefly that had appareled, with another giant bundle of requests. Observingly absently as he focused on the task at hand, his voice maintaining it's articulated drawl.

"To the victors go the spoils."

His gaze settled on the mountain of paper work before him and before he could begin the assignments, an idea caught him, and the fact that he hadn't thought of it sooner surprised him. Of course. The Granger girl. She would come in handy here, he mused, and after what she had done to Peter Pettigrew, there was many a wizard out there, and even a handful of witches that would have liked to add a slash for Hermione to their bedposts, or to their lipstick cases. He glanced to the clock. He'd arrived early in hopes of being able to leave on time for the first time since his tenure at the prison camp. With more requests then ever before, now that more of the general prison population had been added to the pass program, it didn't look promising.

The clock struck the hour, and he nodded his approval. It was role call, and he hadn't assigned todays request for her, or for anyone yet for that matter. He wanted them organized first, and the challenge was daunting. Focusing on the house elf before him, struggling a little with the bag of requests. The elf walked with a limp, Snape noted. No doubt abuse from someone in a station similar or above his. Taking that in note, and not wanting to be accused of going soft, he snarled at the House Elf. "LEAVE IT. And fetch me Prisoner Granger, Hermione. " He moved over to his prisoner record, adding. "Female Prison Population. Barracks 13. Identification number 1288."

The house elf cowered at his tone and cried out "Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!" and was gone with a familiar pop. Snape moved to his desk. Sipping his tea that had gone cold as he surveyed the mountain of work ahead of him. The bit of milk he had added seemed to have gone a little sour, but he sat and drank it all the same. Taking the moment of solitude.

Some time later he was interrupted by a knock at the door. The house elf was not allowed to apparate anyone but himself, and so after arriving at rolecall, he had nearly dragged her along the way. Occasionally purposely bashing himself into obstacles along the way to punish himself for taking so long in his task. Snape ignored the new marks on the house elf, and muttered. "You are dismissed. "

Hermione Granger stood before him, wide eyed. She had seen him of course, while he was in recovery at St. Mungos for Nagini's attack, but it was startling to see him here, and in a shiny uniform that was nearly identical at least in color and cut as to that of Lucius Malfoys'. Though, Lucius had more shiny metals and ribbons to decorate the dark, severely cut jacket, with the emblem of the new ministry. That of an eye, with a spider where the iris should be. She took a step back, inadvertently as she took him in. Despite herself, addressing him. "Professor."

"Miss Granger." He nodded curtly, and from his top drawer he removed a small wand that were used by those who required muggles with magic abilities to access those magic reserves, to assist the Ministry or her followers. She would be incapable of doing any damage to anyone with the wand, it had been designed that way. She had heard stories of other prisoners being able to use these ivory wands under the watchful eye of those whose who had taken them away. She'd heard some horror stories, but looking at the white wand, she found her fingers itched to take it. 

He handed it over with ease. "Do not attempt to do any damage with this. It will be recorded, noted and used at a trial to guarantee your death." He spoke the throat casually, but it didn't make it any less true. Any resistance was met swiftly, and with enough red tape that the Ministry called it justice, and everyone else seemed to look away. Those that didn't ended up dead, missing, or if they were terribly unlucky as prisoners of this very camp.

Taking the ivory wand, stubby and thick, she weighed it in her hands, before breathing "Point Me" under her breath, and watching the wand point her to the north. Giving a little nod, and hanging tight to him, certain of it's ability now. Asking after a minute or so of him watching her, the discomfort in the room growing. "Am I to understand that you've requested my presence, Professor? " She paled. Her mind immediately going to Peter Pettigrew's attempts at fondling her, and where they would have gone had she not disarmed him, and used his wand against him.

He watched her, his brow furrowing for a moment, before an uncharacteristic laugh escaped his pursed lips. The sound of that laugh was unsettling, and she waited for him to elaborate on what he found funny about the situation, because she had many words to offer to describe the situation, and comical, amusing, or hilarious had not even made her short list as options. 

"Rest easy, Miss Granger. Molesting my former students holds very little appeal to me, even under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, we will be far too busy for such excursions."

Relaxing visibly she returned her attention to him, braver then she had been when the fear of what he might have wanted gone. She listened closely as he explained. 

" All of these satchels are letters with requests for the Prisoner Lending Program. "

She hadn't been aware there was an official name, raising a brow to him and interrupting just as he had opened his mouth to continue speaking. He abruptly shut it as her question tumbled forth. 

"How do you like working for the PLP, Professor? "

He ignored the question after giving her a warning gaze, continuing. " Each of the letters has the prisoner number on the front of it, I need to begin assigning each prisoner that is requested with one of those requests for the day. If they are not available for the requested day, I check the second and third choices against that of the prisoners. In theory eventually this system will be booked out months in advance, I'm afraid we're not to that point yet." He admitted.

The idea of sorting the fates of her friends did not appeal to her, but being able to step out of the rotation, to help him was a welcome change, at least from her morning hours of kneeling or standing in the center courtyard with the thousands of other prisoners. True it was the only time she could guarantee that many of her friends had lived through the night, but there had been more and more faces, and each of them less familiar then the one before, as fresh shipments of enemies of the Magical state began to grow the number of permanent prisoners in the facility.

"I need the prisoners divided in piles by numerical number. "

 

And so it with few words, but two focused over achievers sorted through the surplus, assigning as they went along. He paused over her open slot for the rest of the week. His gaze following the largest pile in the corner, where she had begun stashing all of the letters for himself. Studying Hermione, before nodding to the corner. "Good work, today. You may pick from that pile. I'll schedule you hear every other day to help me stay above water with these numbers, but suspicion will arise if I attempt to schedule you more often then that."

 

Hrermione nodded a little. Exhausted, and setting the foreign wand down before him at his desk. She was swaying a little on her feet too, from hunger. Severus didn't consider food often, and mainly ate at dinner, so he hadn't considered her needs. He had never been good at empathy, and the idea that she might have been hungry hadn't crossed his mind. It wasn't until he heard her stomach rumbling from across the room, as she looked at the pile of options before her. 

Hearing the grumble, while she was occupied with attempting to choose her own hell for tomorrow, he summoned a house elf, and before she had chosen a name, a tray of rich cheeses, crackers, grapes and olives was set on his desk. Her mouth watered at the sight of it, and he shrugged in response. "Once you have tomorrow's name, you're welcome to some." He took a slice of one of the blue white cheeses that smelled far worse then it tasted. 

She finally recognized a name, and handed the sealed request to him silently. It had in the corner, the name of the man who had made the request. It was a Bulgarian she had once been rather close to by the name of Victor Krum. She knew, or rather hoped that she could talk some reason into him. The Goblet of Fire was supposed to help with international wizarding and witch good will. She doubted that Dumbledore could have imagined just how absurd his words would prove to be only a few short years later, but everything had changed.

Severus gave a little nod, recognizing the name, and murmuring. "Interesting choice, Miss Granger. Cheese?"

And they spent the rest of the afternoon eating, speaking little, and sorting the requests.

The mundaneness of the organization almost took the sting out of realizing what her careful organization would accomplish. Certain names would remind her. Many of the darker wizards and witches had made several requests. She was disturbed to find that Bellatrix LeStrange had made a request for every surviving member of Dumbledore's Army, and some surviving members of the Order as well.

The former student glanced over as her former professor wrote down LeStrange's itinerary of prisoners that she would be using for "scientific purposes". The name for tomorrow was Neville Longbottom. A shiver ran down her spine, at the idea of her friend being tortured at the hands of one of the women responsible for hurting his parents. Fervently. "Professor. You can't. You can't do that to Neville."

Severus sighed, and paused. "This is scheduling, Miss Granger. If you allow yourself to look at it as anything else, you'll lose your mind, long before all of this is over."

She shook her head a little, battling. "I'll go to her. I know my name is in her requests, I remember seeing it."

The man nodded in agreement. "Of course, but you have plans, Miss Granger. A date with an old flame? Be careful not to get burned. " He added, almost absently. "Unfortunately for Mr. Longbottom, Viktor Krum has not requested the pleasure of his company and I am afraid that you will find there is no such thing as an even trade in this world anymore."

She didn't question him again, but did her best to hide the more undesirable requests in the bottom of the pile. It was with surprise that the sharp whistle sounded over the campgrounds, marking dinner for the prisoners.

Severus gave her a nod. "I'll finish the rest tonight. Go eat. I'll see you on Wednesday." She was dismissed and he closed the door behind her, locking it and moving to pour himself a tall glass of fire whiskey. He found that it helped numb him, and he found that the familiar burn was more and more welcome with each sip he took, and he found himself yearning for the taste of it scalding his tongue, when the day was long and unyielding.

He didn't do any more sorting that night, with the aid of Miss Granger he was well ahead of his projected percentage. He instead focused on the dancing of the flames within his hearth and considered just how the hell he was going to get through this in his perilous position.

Never once did it seem that he could just decide, good or bad, back or white. He always straddled the dividing line, and found parts of him being yanked in either direction. He slept in the armchair that was part of the corner section of his office, having got lost in the licks of flames, and the thoughts of the many masks he had worn, and the many more he would need to carve, to ensure his survival. And if he was very, very lucky, maybe he could aid in the safety of those few people left alive on this Earth that inspired twinges of emotion, inside his wounded and wretched soul, and allowed himself to embrace his variety of emotions for a little while in his reverie, before the alcohol had taken hold and guided him down the familiar path of unconscious oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione made her way to the cafeteria, escorted by a House Elf. Wrapping her arms around herself. The nights were cold, and the open air of the camp between the buildings seeming to hold the wind, and double it's painful bite.

The house elf left her at the doorway, and she walked through, glancing around the tables, and the assembled prisoners. A quiet buzz of conversation, as the guards roamed through the tables, wands at the ready to punish.

She moved into line, and blinked, when she recognized the wizard in front of her, by his dark hair, and shrunken stature. The destruction of everyone in the long term ward at St. Mungo's had left him a shell of his former self. Neville had been visiting his parents, when the Hospital had been seized. He had been forced to watch as former Death Eater's, now in Ministry Robes systematically went through the ward and Avada Kedavra'd everyone there, held by Magic, and unable to help. 

He had been brought here, with the other visitors of the ward who had political beliefs, or had assisted Harry Potter in his radical attempts to destroy law and order in the Wizarding world, and whatever had happened to him here, Hermione couldn't be certain, seemed to have broken him. She prayed that there was some part of his former self buried safely inside, but she had yet to see much sign of it. She touched his shoulder gently and withdrew it instantly at the way he cowered from her touch, against the wall in the long line for soup. 

Frowning, and letting her hand fall to her side, murmuring softly. "I'm sorry Neville. Are you all right?"

He stared at her blankly, as if she wasn't there. Frowning she added, gently as possible. 

"I've been assigned to work with Professor -- No." She corrected herself, frowning. "The Direction of Communications, Snape. I know who's taking you tomorrow."

His eyes showed no recognition, and she was almost glad for it. The news she was to deliver made her nearly choke on the words. 

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Something flickered in Neville's eyes and he shrunk back further against the wall. Slowly sliding his quickly diminishing frame down to the ground, and drawing his knees up to her chest.

She paled, and moved to kneel next to him, whispering. "Neville. I'm so sorry. I tried to get assigned to her instead, but it wasn't allowed. You have to stand up now, Neville. " She added quickly, attempting to help him to her feet, noticing that the guards had begun to take interest in the commotion happening in the line.

She struggled to help him to his feet, imploring the witch behind her, and the Wizard in front of Neville in line for help, and finding anger bristling within her, as her pleas were ignored. More and more frequently prisoners were protecting their own self interests, instead of helping each other, and it made her blood boil. 

She could almost hear the words of her best friend, the now dead boy-who-lived, providing some inspirational speech for all of those gathered here, suffering, and afraid.

No one else heard the words, and she knew against all hope that attempting to stir her people in this moment, in this place would only result in her execution. She knew it, and she kept her mouth closed as she struggled to get Neville to his feet. From the front of the line, a girl with pale blonde hair, stepped out, and made her way to them. Hermione hadn't seen her often, but knew from their few conversations that Luna was in a precarious position, too.

Her Father had been executed, along with the entire staff of the Quibbler, for attempting to publish the New Ministry's Agenda. With having been raised by what the Ministry referred to as an anarchist, some would say Luna was lucky to be alive at all. Hermione knew Luna had been placed on the far end of the camp, all women in her barracks, and all of them of pure magical blood.

Rumors had been swirling that efforts to repopulate the Magical community were happening with the prisoner women of that very barracks. An excuse for the male guards to do as they pleased, all with the promise of doing good for the Magical community. The rumors made her sick, and Hermione was just about to ask Luna if there was any truth to them, as the two of them succeeded in helping Neville to his feet, before the feeling of the Cruciatus curse hit each of them, from the combined efforts of two guards she didn't know by name, and by one, she did. A silver haired wizard with a satisfied smile on his lips, as he watched her body writhe from the agony of it. The three part harmony of their cries of pain silencing the rest of the cafeteria. Some glaring, and watching. The hopeless anger of the situation evident in their faces, and clenched fists. Others looked down into the grey muck of their soup bowls, if they didn't see it, it wasn't happening. And couldn't happen to them.

A thousand thoughts fluttered just outside of Hermione's reach as her body twisted and bucked in impossible directions, before Malfoy raised his hands for the guards to stop, the attack abruptly finishing, as it had begun. He murmured, his voice low, and bored. 

"Seize them." 

In a moment, Luna and Neville had been grabbed, and cuffed by the other guards, Malfoy descended upon Hermione, and yanked her arms, gruffly behind her, clicking the cuffs into place on each of her slender wrists. She didn't fight him, still gasping for breath from the pain, his grip the only thing holding her up.

His orders sent a shudder through her spine. "Take them to solitary. I will take care of Miss Granger myself."

She stumbled as he yanked her away from her friends. Glancing back over to them, and whispering "I'm sorry."

Luna forced her a brave smile in response, as she and Neville were dragged the opposite way. No sign of recognition on Longbottom's face.

Malfoy led her back into the courtyard, and to his Officer's quarters. Dragging her through the main rooms, and finally to the bedroom where he spent his nights. Muttering against her ear as he locked the door behind him. "You haven't even begun to be sorry yet, Miss Granger."

He held her in place as he used his wand to ignite the candles that lined the walls of his quarters. Her eyes fell dully on the green and silver satin of the bed sheets. Ever the Slytherin. 

He guided her to the bed and shoved her forcefully to sit on the edge of it, His silky voice close against her ear. "I knew it wouldn't belong before I would see you in chains again."

She could feel the way his breath quickened, and her gaze moved to the tenting of his uniform pants, and she shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut.

He chuckled in response, his hand moving to entangle in the brown rats nest of her hair. Tugging sharply, before adding. "Punishment is something you require. Discipline. We'll start with this."

He yanked her from where he had sat her on his bed, pulling her over to the chair before his desk, and shoving her into it. Opening the drawer to the right, and pulling out a pair of silver scissors. She raised her eyes to his, wide. Shaking her head a little, numbly, as he yanked the hair he was holding tighter, and began to cut.

She watched her reflection and his in the mirror that sat above his desk. Only Malfoy would want a mirror, so he could admire his own visage as he did his work, and his smug grin widened as he saw the tears form in her eyes. The sound of the scissors clicking, her constant companion as her hair began to fall in long strands against the ground, some of the hair clinging to her prisoner shift. 

When he was done, she looked nothing like herself. The hair that remained shorn, and uneven, in some places nearly to the scalp, and other spots, almost enough of the brown hair to grab onto. She swallowed hard, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she stared at her new reflection.

He grabbed her by her still chained wrists, and moved to rip down the buttons of the back of her shift, revealing her nudity below. Taking in a deep breath at the sight of her, he moved to fling her chest first over the bed, her feet barely touching the ground, from how he held her. Taking from the bedpost a chain that had been tucked behind, and winding it easily among the cuffs that held her. Giving a strong tug to make sure that she was secure.

Satisfied with his skills of restraint, he moved to the chest at the end of his bed, Lifting it slowly, and removing after a few moments of decision, a leather whip, thin, toward the end, thicker as it went to the handle. She watched him, terror tensing her body as she struggled to move away from the bed, but awkwardly, the way she was held.

He laughed, enjoying watching her struggle, before giving the whip a quick slash through the air, the resulting crack flooding her eyes with tears, even several feet away, the realization of the pain to come, taking every bit of fight out of her. Finding herself pleading with him, no amount of shame stronger then that of her fear.

"Please don't. Please. You don't have to do this!" Her voice cracked, as she struggled further onto the bed, and away from him,

His chuckle filled the room, before he responded easily. 

"No, Mudblood. I don't have too. I want too. And you should have learned by now that I always get what I want."

His large well manicured fingers began to stroke their way down her shorn scalp, to her neck, and down the back of her shoulders continuing it's stroke down her spinebetween where her hands were cuffed behind her. Giving a little kiss to the base of her tailbone, before preparing to strike.


End file.
